Halo The Lost SPARTANs
by millenium-writer
Summary: Reach has fallen. The Covenant armada amassing at Unyeilding Hierophant has been decimated. The Gettysburg hurtles towards Earth carrying it's tiny crew home. And somehow, along the way, the three lost SPARTANs forming Grey team have been recovered.
1. Chapter 1

**1240 HOURS, OCTOBER 15, 2552 (MILITARY CALENDER) / ENROUTE TO SOL SYSTEM, PLANET EARTH, VIA SLIPSPACE TRANSITION, ABOARD UNSC FRIGATE GETTYSBURG.**

"SPARTAN-147 reporting as ordered, Master Chief." Saluting smartly, the SPARTAN stood stiff at attention, staring straight ahead as the Master Chief returned his salute.

"At ease." SPARTAN-117's baritone voice issued from his suit speakers, it was both as familiar and reassuring as it was commanding. Even naval officers listened when the Chief spoke, and with good reason. Standing nearly seven feet tall, Master Chief Petty Officer John was a half ton of iron dense muscle, and enhanced armor. He looked part tank, part greek warrior, and all business.

Nodding, 147 relaxed his stance and held his arms behind his back, clasping one hand around the wrist of the other. "Permission to speak freely sir?"

"Granted."

"It's good to see you again, sir."

"Likewise, Garth."

Satisfied, Garth nodded and resumed staring straight ahead, noting the many scuffs and dents in the Chief's armor. He looked like he had been through literal hell, and back, just to bring back a precious few from Reach. Not that his own armor looked any better, he had been out of direct contact with the UNSC for some time.

The virtually indestructible iridescent green armor Garth wore sported numerous abrasions on one side, a reminder to never leap out of a Warthog going in excess of a hundred kilometers an hour, unless a Wraith's energy mortar was bearing down on you. He had slid down a rocky cliff face on his side, banged off of some rocks, and free fell for a dozen meters before hitting the ground. His shield had failed midway down, and did nothing to blunt the impact when he landed.

Had he not possessed enough sense to scramble to safety against the base of the cliff, the mere quarter charge his shield had built up wouldn't have done a thing against the Warthog when it landed where he hit earth, before exploding a second time. It had barely held against the fireball that slammed him against the wall of solid granite he had taken shelter against.

Pushing aside reflections on the past for the moment, Garth's eyes drifted over the interior of the bridge he stood on, and it's other occupants.

Off to the side, Cortana's minute figure stood atop a holographic projection pad, dozens of encoded sigils streamed along the length of her insubstantial violet and ebony body. She, along with SPARTAN-104 Frederic, was co-ordinating the unloading of a few crates of ordinance from the single Pelican currently aboard the Gettysburg. The UNSC frigate had been battered, scorched, melted and gutted, it was barely holding together, despite the hasty repairs performed in the Eridanus system.

Titanium A hull armor was welded over the front viewing windows, and a trio of monitors had been bolted over the plating. Freeze dried blood was encrusted in various places, some of which had been stained a rusty red from half hearted attempts to scrub it off.

Returning his focus to the Master Chief, Garth noted the slight incline of his head. John always had a tendency to do that when he was awaiting a report, though it was so slight that unaugmented humans had trouble noticing it. But then, he could hardly be called 'unaugmented', not without lying at least.

"Sir, mission accomplished, all readily available ordinance has been loaded onto the Gettysburg, as per your orders. Unfortunately, it's mostly MA5B ammo, the last of the shredder rounds were expended repelling the Covenant from the outpost before your arrival. We have managed to scrape together a half crate of shotgun shells, as well as rounds for the S2 AM's. Several of the MA5B's are in working order, some require maintenance, but with the Gettysburg's machine shop, that shouldn't be a problem." In truth, they were lucky to have had those meager supplies at all. Garth and the rest of Grey team had resorted to skipping every second meal, trying to stretch their dwindling rations as far as they could go.

The Master Chief nodded, turning to a console, he typed in a command, bringing up their current course on one of the main screens. He struck Garth as a little distracted, and that wasn't like him. Not the John he remembered. "Explosives?"

"Plenty sir. Antlion anti-tank mines, C7 foaming explosive, and a party mix of grenades. What we don't have is pistol ammo, the M6D's are down to a handful of clips. Before you ask sir, yes, we did receive the last of the SEAP rounds from Reach, I doubt we would have lasted long enough for you to pick up our distress beacon otherwise." They had blown through the pistol ammo like a hurricane force wind when the Hunters had started coming in packs. SEAP rounds did incredible amounts of damage to exposed flesh in an instant, if your aim was good enough to avoid the starship grade battle plate all Hunters wore.

SEAP, or Semi Explosive Armor Piercing rounds were specially issued to the SPARTAN II's and the Pillar of Autumn in particular for it's original mission to capture a Covenant Prophet. That mission had been scrapped what felt like years ago, once the attack on Reach had begun. True, Garth had never been there for the doomed mission briefing, but he had received a long range communique informing him of the general outline. It had been a suicide mission, perfect for SPARTANS.

The Master Chief nodded again, seemingly focused on the heading the Gettysburg was following.

"We also expended the few M19 SSM rockets we were issued weeks ago. We have, quite frankly, an over abundance of Covie tech sir, plasma pistols, plasma rifles, needlers, we even managed to capture a few fuel rod cannons to make up for the rocket shortage, but they've been all but expended." All SPARTANS shared the same disdain for Covenant technology, but desperate times called for desperate measures. The was had been unofficially classified as 'desperate' shortly after the battle for Harvest.

Their current heading was Earth. After several of the required random jumps, as per the Cole protocol, they were finally on their way home.

Home.

Reach had been his home, and now it was reduced to glass. There were several SPARTANS on Reach when it fell, siblings that he'd never see again. How much longer could the human race survive before the Covenant managed to glass Earth too?

"We're also down to a pair of sniper rifles, one sans-scope thanks to a close encounter with a plasma grenade. Most of our armor is still functioning aside from some jury-rigging, mostly the outer plating, and a few hydrostatic gel seals, nothing major." Nothing major, like the grenade that had nearly adhered to Nickolai's helmet. Only his super human reflexes had brought the rifle up in time to save his head. Those same reflexes saved both the desperately needed rifle, and the rest of his team when he snapped it off, and threw it at the cluster of Elites charging them, returning the present.

"Noted." The lift hummed quietly to a stop, and it's flat grey doors slid open with a barely perceptible sigh as Sergeant Avery Johnson stepped out onto the bridge. "Report to the docking bay with Sergeant Johnson and assist with the final unloading and stow the rest of the supplies. Then see to your gear in the machine shop. Dismissed." Opening his mouth to comment, the Sergeant snapped his jaw shut, and reversed his course, stepping back into the lift without complaint.

"Sir!" Saluting again, Garth turned to join the Sergeant in the lift, and hesitated. "Sir, begging your pardon, but what are you planning on doing?" Given all they had been through, the various SPARTANS could use a week of downtime, and two days stay in recovery. Any longer, and they'd wind up going AWOL just to get back on the frontlines. He had a feeling that wasn't what the Chief had planned.

The Master Chief's reply was immediate. "Winning this war."

-

The lift hummed softly as Petty Officer Garth and Sergeant Johnson descended towards the docking bay, filling the otherwise uncomfortable silence between the two men. Neither seemed willing to speak first, and that suited Garth. He hadn't had time to review the other SPARTAN's and the Sergeant's mission logs.

"I heard you boys had a rough time before we pulled your butts out of the fryer." Johnson slid the end of a stubbed out cigar into the corner of his mouth and stared at the armored soldier. Few UNSC troops were actually willing to stand within a dozen yards of a SPARTAN, let alone initiate conversation with them. As far as Johnson was concerned, if you bled for Earth, you were alright in his books.

That said a lot about the man.

Nodding, Garth pressed a hand over the butt of his M6D, reassuring himself that the sidearm was still there. It had become a trained response after his holster had become damaged during his extended recon op, specifically, the ride down the hill, and the explosion that had followed. He'd have to swap over for one of the M6C magnum pistols soon, there simply wasn't any more SEAP rounds to go around.

"Well we've been having ourselves a hell of a time, bouncing from one system to another, leaving a trail of Covenant behind us. Blowing up fleets, destroying superweapons, you know, regular duty." The corners of Sergeant Johnson's mouth turned upwards as he folded his arms over his chest. He looked over the other soldier as if measuring him, perhaps comparing him to the other SPARTAN's he had fought alongside. "None of that recon light duty stuff you've been stuck on." It took a lot of guts to tease a SPARTAN, especially pushing their buttons like that.

It wasn't known outside of a select few that SPARTANs _hated_ light duty, frequently volunteering for the most dangerous missions available. At the state the war had progressed to, there was no shortage of those sorts of missions now.

Opening his team roster on his HUD display, Garth glanced over the updates highlighted in bright orange text. The list was longer than his solo file, much longer with the addition of the Chief's and Frederic's amendments. Not only were most of the SPARTANs listed, but also several marines and naval officers, including- "Vice Admiral Whitcomb is listed as KIA. Were there any other officers that survived Reach?" There was only going to be one answer coming from the Sergeant, but he had to hear it.

The Sergeant's smile died as if it had been switched off. "No, according to the Admiral, he was the only surviving officer of rank after the initial attack on HighCom." Frowning, Johnson leaned back against the side of the lift, gloomily chewing on the soggy end of his cigar stub.

Garth's reply was an icy silence. The longer the war drew on, the more it seemed humanity was doomed. Reach was supposed to be untouchable, the very foundation of humanity's military strength. The fact that it was now gone...

The lift hummed to a halt, and it's doors parted, cutting off Garth's dark train of thought as the expanse of the loading bay swept into view. There, the Pelican that had delivered him from a seemingly hopeless battle, outgunned, outmanned, and outmatched, it had carried him safely to the Gettysburg and to what he hoped would be a path to the salvation of humanity. His armor creaked softly as he strode across the bay, the rapid clomping of boots across deckplating followed in his wake as Sergeant Johnson tried to keep up with the SPARTAN's long stride, oblivious to the soldiers morbid thoughts.

Salvation. Such a grandiose term for what lay after hope, at the end of all battles, at the end of war. What fate would await him, when it was all over? A long and dreamless sleep, he hoped, free of the darkness that was looming over them. Garth had always been a brooder.

At the top of the Pelican's ramp, a SPARTAN was dragging a quartet of crates from the craft, his back to the approaching pair. Wordlessly, Garth strode up the ramp and wrapped his armored fingers around the lashings that held the crates together. Turning his helmet to face the other, he swiped two fingers of his free hand across his polarized faceplate where his mouth would be. It was one of the SPARTAN's secret gestures, this was their sign for a smile. He enjoyed the minute tensing of the other's limbs, the closest a SPARTAN could get to being visibly startled. "Will." It had to be him, he always wound up drawing pack duty somehow, he never complained either.

All SPARTANs could tell each other apart simply by the way they moved and stood. It was a natural byproduct from training together for decades, since childhood, since long before anyone had ever _heard_ of the SPARTAN project.

"Garth." SPARTAN-043 Will returned the smile gesture, and the two SPARTANs together hauled the crates down the ramp. Sergeant Johnson stood to the side and let out a low whistle, he could _see_ the Pelican's ramp buckling under the combined weights of the two armored soldiers and the crates. "What's in those things anyways? Lead bricks? Depleted uranium?"

Garth leaned to the side, inspecting the straps to confirm they were tight and in good order. They were. "Titanium A plating to shore up the superstructure around the engines, the last few scraps we could salvage from the outpost before it fell." Once Grey team had received a reply to their distress beacon, they had begun tearing down the outpost bolt by bolt, grabbing everything of value they could carry, and rigging the rest to blow.

Once Cortana had apprised them on the condition of the Gettysburg, they had torn down most of the walls and removed the meager armored plating that remained on outer walls of the outpost. "Where's the rest of your team?" According to John and Fred's reports, there were still some surviving SPARTANs.

"Linda is catching a few hours sleep, she's still recovering from her... Operation." Will knelt down, checking the serial numbers on the crates against the manifest displayed on his HUD. He wasn't eager to explain what had happened to Linda.

Or Kelly.

"I read the report." Garth grabbed the straps with both hands, and began dragging the crates off to the side. Will was stalling and they both knew it. "She's lucky, the only one of us to get some decent rest for once." The lashings creaked beneath his fingers, he was squeezing them too hard. "Heard you had a rough time too." He eased up his grip a little, and continued to drag the crates over to the unloading zone.

Jumping to his feet, Will began pushing the crates along behind Garth, letting out a noncommittal grunt. His injuries had been minor compared to Kelly's, and nonexistent compared to Linda's. "I heard you had worse." Will spared a glance at his motion tracker, aware that the Sergeant was following them at a safe distance. "You were declared MIA after Command lost contact with your team."

It was Garth's turn to grunt. Turning, he hauled the crates into the designated loading area, and began untangling the lashings. "Why did the Doctor take Kelly like that?" He hadn't thought of Dr. Halsey in a long time. After reading the mission report, he wasn't picturing her in a very good light. It made him uncomfortable to think of the Doctor that way, but how else could he take it?

"I don't know." Will easily lifted one of the crates to the deck once Garth had freed it, normally a task that would have taken a dozen marines, or heavy lifting machinery. "She flashed a Code Three-Nine-Two on her way out though." Will paused to dust off the gunmetal green crate latches, they were covered in ash, and carbonized bits of bone.

Garth let out a low whistle as he gathered the lashings up and set them aside on the deck. "She actually blew the Admiral off." It wasn't entirely a surprise. If anyone were to ever pull a stunt like that, it would have been Dr. Halsey. "How'd he take it?" He eased the second crate down, and began scraping at the twisted latches with the back of his gauntlet. This crate had taken a secondary hit from an exploding Warthog refueling tank. It had almost been his head, so he silently worried the latch apart, and was thankful.

Will snorted, and unsnapped the latch, pulling off the crate's lid. Inside, were several centimeter thick sheets of titanium A battleplate. Will reached inside and pulled one out, checking for any flaws that Grey team could have missed in their haste.

Garth could only imagine the look on Admiral Whitcomb's face. Giving up the latch as ruined, he closed his armored fingers around the twisted metal and pulled. With a sharp squeal the latch pulled free and clattered to the deck. Tipping the lid off, he reached inside and hauled out a sheet of metal, giving it a once over with his visor set to HiRes mode. "Looks good to me." Resetting his optics, he turned to Will.

"I'll just leave you two to this then." Feeling uncomfortable being privy to such a private conversation, and standing uselessly about while others did all the work didn't sit well with Sergeant Johnson. "If you need me, I'll be unloading the weapons and ammo from the Pelican." Turning on his heel, Johnson strode across the empty deck, heading for the barely salvageable dropship sitting in the middle of the loading bay. He was worried about the remaining SPARTANs, but for a different reason. They weren't family to him, not like they were to each other, but they were soldiers, and he'd fight tooth and nail to keep the men and women serving with him alive.

Besides, people needed heroes. Needed them to give them hope. And that was something that was in short supply.

-

Questions, comments, reviews and whatnot are welcome.


	2. Chapter 2

**2103 HOURS, OCTOBER 15, 2552 (MILITARY CALENDER) / ENROUTE TO SOL SYSTEM, PLANET EARTH, VIA SLIPSPACE TRANSITION, ABOARD UNSC FRIGATE GETTYSBURG.**

With a dull thump, the doors to the Gettysburg's machine shop unlocked and eased inward, as Garth stepped inside, he was immediately aware of the trio of gunbarrels pointed in his direction. He would have commented, but for some reason, he just wasn't feeling settled. The business with Dr. Halsey's... Desertion, was bothering him more than he cared to admit, even to himself.

That was the crux of it. Dr. Halsey had deserted the UNSC, and taken one of his own with her.

Shaking his head, Garth clenched his jaw. No, Dr. Halsey wouldn't have deserted humanity so easily, there had to be an explanation to her actions. He just didn't have all the facts. His gut instincts agreed with this line of thought, so he pushed his worry to the back of his mind, and forgot about it. For now.

"Garth." Sitting with her back propped against a stainless steel tool chest, with most of her armor removed, was almost the last person he expected to see. Alive, at any rate. Angry red lines crossed her pale, bare skin, bearing witness to the superhuman end result of the SPARTAN project.

Linda was alive. Again.

Staring frozen for an instant, Garth strode across the bay, and crouched down next to her. A knot of worry festered in his gut, boiling around his insides like a swarm of vermin. Fumbling with his helmet seal for a moment, there was a hiss of escaping pressurized air, and Garth's bare face got it's first taste of unfiltered oxygen in what felt like forever.

He wanted to confirm with his own eyes that Linda was ok. _Machines break, trainee. Your eyes don't._ Chief Petty Officer Mendez had taught them that lesson, decades ago, and Garth had taken it to heart more than any other SPARTAN had.

An uncomfortable silence lingered, before someone softly cleared their throat. Garth jerked his head around, and gave the other SPARTANs a glassy eyed stare. "Nikolai. Wayne." They nodded in return. Closing his eyes for a moment, just to rest them, Garth looked at his teammates again.

Nikolai was sitting at one of the few benches in the shop, one hand resting on his S2 AM. An Oracle scope was laying on the table next to him, as well as mounting tools, and several bottles of Locktite in various grades. A gift from Linda, no doubt. He was in the process of removing the damaged scope mounts, and replacing them with new ones. "My lucky rifle." Nikolai swiped his fingers across his faceplate, making the smile gesture.

"I think the scope was luckier." Turning, Garth set his focus on Wayne. The other member of Grey team was laying on the floor, head pillowed on his arms , MA5B alongside him, as well as his back plate.

Wayne's armor had taken a serious beating, and it still surprised Garth that he was alive. Wayne had rushed a pair of Hunters that had Nikolai pinned down, and nearly got a hole blown through him for his loyalty. It was only luck, and Wayne's razor edged reflexes that had allowed him to take a glancing blow from the second Hunter's Fuel Rod cannon. The rest of the blast had torn the other Hunter in half, and Wayne had finished off the remaining Covenant enforcer with a punch hard enough to tear a Warthog in two. The Hunter had fared about as well, Wayne's fist ripped most of it's insides out, and spilled them over the ground.

Turning his gaze back to Linda, Garth's eyes drifted down to the iridescent green plates that lay in a pile next to her. A lot of them looked different somehow. Reaching across Linda's thighs, he picked up a shoulder pauldron and turned it over in his hands. It was definitely different, the exposed slit of the shield generator was slightly larger, and the plating a hint thinner than his. "Upgrades?"

Linda nodded, crossing her arms carefully over her chest. "A little something Red team picked up during their stay on Reach." A hint of a smile flickered over Linda's lips, then died. "A lot of SPARTANs di-"

"I know." Garth set down the pauldron, reaching for another plate of armor. "I read the report." That wasn't entirely true, he had just read the MIAs and the KIAs. "Whitcomb didn't make it." Staring at the undamaged, pristine really, armored plating for a moment, Garth set it back down on the stack, and sank back on his heels.

"You knew him?" Linda's interest was piqued. Grey team had always been sent the furthest away when it came time for missions, she hadn't seen Garth in years. She ran bare fingers over her short, bloodred hair, absently thinking about shaving it again.

Nodding, Garth held up his left arm, staring at the uneven corrugation that ran over his upper limb plating. "He was usually the one who assigned Grey team to recon duty." Unlocking the collar around his wrist, Garth slid his gauntlet off, and set it on the floor next to his helmet.

Linda's eyes drifted over Garth's worn armor. It looked a little like someone had taking an enormous belt sander to his left side, and worked him over with it. She had a feeling that the truth wasn't that far off either. "What happened to you?"

Removing the armor plating from his arm, Garth went about taking off his shoulder pauldron. "Fell off a cliff." He stripped his other arm free of his armor, then began working on his torso plating. When he had first put on his Mark V armor, it had taken four techs a dozen minutes to assemble it. Now, he could strip and repair most of it on his own, like he had when he had ruptured his hydrostatic gel seal after he had fallen off that cliff.

"No, I ment since I last saw you." Linda frowned, realizing there wasn't enough time in the world for any SPARTAN to accurately recount years of history. "Tell me about your last mission." They had time enough for that, at least. It would take him that long to replace his damaged armor with the Mark VI prototype parts they had left over.

"It's a long story." Garth was sorting through his armor plating, separating the intact bits from the ones too damaged to repair. "Are you sure you want to hear it?" He'd filed the report already, and Nikolai and Wayne had lived most of it with him.

"I've got nothing to do but lay here. The Chief ordered me to rest until the Navy medtechs on Earth clear me for active duty." That had been the compromise, after the assault on the _Unyielding Hierophant_, that Linda get some R&R to recuperate from her operation, and post death experience.

Nodding, Garth set down his chest plate and picked up his helmet. Turning the drab and amber angular dome over in his hands, he mulled over where to begin. He vaguely remembered the beginning to an old earth fairy tale, somehow, the words felt _right_ as they drifted from his lips. "It was a day like any other..."

-

**0930 HOURS, AUGUST 20, 2552 (MILITARY CALENDAR) / EPSILON ERIDANI SYSTEM, FLEETCOM MILITARY COMPLEX, HIGHCOM SECTION, PLANET REACH**

"Sir!" Snapping a smart salute, Garth felt rather than saw, the two members of his team duplicate his action. "SPARTAN Grey team reporting for duty, Sir!" Typical Naval officers usually looked upon a half ton of armor and flesh with distaste, but Vice Admiral Whitcomb was anything _but_ typical.

"At ease." Returning the salute, the Vice Admiral gestured to the seats arranged in a semi-circle before his desk. "Glad you boys could join me. Have a seat." Settling himself back down in his chair, Whitcomb looked expectantly at the three soldiers. "Well? Time's a wasting boys."

Glancing hesitantly at the padded wooden chairs, Garth looked back at the Vice Admiral. "With respect sir, those chairs aren't rated to support our gear." In truth, nothing short of a seat bolted to a titanium frame came close to supporting a fully armored SPARTAN.

Whitcomb stared for a moment, before realizing what the younger man ment. "Of course, stand easy then." Opening a folder, he glanced over a few lines of printed text, then sharply stared back up at the trio of SPARTANs. "Son, it says here that you've just returned from a six month recon op yesterday. Is this report correct, or do I need to have a few words with my staff about their typing skills?"

Garth shifted uneasily, as did the rest of his team. Procedure was for at least two days of downtime for every month spent on extended recon. His team had walked out of the armory only a few hours ago, after making sure that their gear was in fighting shape. "Sir, the report is accurate, Sir."

Staring hard at Grey team for a protracted period of time, the Vice Admiral closed the folder, and placed his palms flat over the manila covering. "Is your team fit to serve son?"

There was only one answer to that, there would ever _be_ one answer to the question. "Sir, yes Sir!" Garth and his team snapped to attention, staring straight forward.

Whitcomb's salt-and-pepper mustache hid the small smile that formed on his lips. "Very well. Here is your mission." Pulling a second folder from beneath the first, the Vice Admiral spun it around and flipped it open, revealing a deep space radar photo of a blue and grey planetoid. "There's a rock some few hundred light years out from this system, Earth type atmosphere, uncolonized save for a small listening outpost and a titanium mine or two." Flipping the page to another photo, this one an overhead shot of the outpost with several cut-in frames of Hi-Res enhancements of various sections, he continued. "The outpost reported a few vague contacts out in deep space nearby, nothing serious, but odd."

Grey team stood silently, eyes locked onto the photos as they memorized every surface, edge and shadow of the layout. They went even as far as to record several Hi-Res shots of their own from their visors. It was always best to expect the unexpected, as Grey team frequently delt with both.

"In a few days time, Dr. Halsey and her team will be conducting a test of the newest model of the Mjolnir armor." _That_ caught their attention. "The test is a mere formality. The Doctor assures me that the new armor is fit to deploy." Whitcomb closed the folder. "I want Grey team at the Ghost Five outpost ASAP." The Vice Admiral stood up. "And I want them dressed to impress. You have four hours to be prepped to go. A prowler is waiting for your team ten klicks north-east, your armor is waiting for you in firing station one."

Leaning over his desk, Vice Admiral Danforth Whitcomb fixed the three SPARTANs with a steely gaze from his coal colored eyes. "I don't need to tell you that this mission is top secret, do I son?"

If it were possible, the SPARTANs stood even straighter than before. "Sir, no, Sir!"

"Good." Nodding, Whitcomb straightened back up, sliding both folders across the desk towards himself. "Feel free to help yourselves to anything not bolted down on your way out. You may want to take a look in medical warehouse twenty-seven, bio-hazardous waste storage section aqua. It seems that someone _accidentally_ shifted some high end munitions there by mistake. A clerical error that will be cleared up in, say, the next hour?"

"Understood." Snapping a stiff salute, Grey team waited until the Vice Admiral returned it and nodded his assent, then turned to leave.

"Good luck boys." As the door eased shut, Whitcomb sat back in his chair, and slid the folders into a slim metal slot seated between the drawers of his desk. There was a faint _clack_, and a tiny puff of smoke.

Watching the hazy grey vapor drift upwards until it was sucked into the ventilation, Whitcomb only then noticed that his hands clutched the arms of his chair in a white-knuckled grip. "I have a feeling you're going to need all the luck you've got."

-

"The drop capsule is sealed and ready to go, sir." Turning in his seat, the co-pilot tapped a control on the door behind them, separating the cockpit from the next compartment, for the seventh time.

"You keep checking the seals, and they're going to get annoyed. Might pop open just to spite you." Chuckling, the pilot chewed a nutritional bar, one hand on the steering yoke. "The Prowler will still be there when we're done with the drop, the seals're fine, and those walking tanks don't give a damn about your nerves."

"I broke a boot lace this morning." The co-pilot tapped a key on his console, and a blue wireframe image appeared on the cockpit display. "Drop co-ordinates are confirmed, ETA is ninety seconds and counting."

"You and your superstitious nonsense." The pilot wadded up the empty wrapped and tossed it onto the floor. "Nothing is going to go wrong. We're just gonna lay this egg, and head home to roost." He tugged back on the throttle a little. "Optimum speed for drop achieved. Attitude light and steady."

The co-pilot tapped another key. "Bay doors unlocked, and primed for ejection." On the forward screen, a green delta inched towards an open bracketed X. "Sixty seconds to drop. It's not nonsense, it's a sign is what it is."

"Radar clear, flaps engaged to ten percent." The Pelican trembled a little as it slowed slightly. "It is nonsense. What could a piece of boot lace know that Command doesn't?" The pilot inched a slider forward a little more. "Flaps to twenty percent."

"Thirty seconds to drop." The co-pilot pecked a few more keys. "Drop capsule is showing all green across the board." The Pelican rattled a bit more. "What was that?"

"Just a crosswind, we're down a bit low for this drop, considering the high atmosphere of this rock." Pulling back on the steering yoke, the pilot tilted the nose of the Pelican up. "Optimum angle for capsule ejection."

"Eight seconds to drop." The co-pilot tapped several more keys. "Launcher pressurized, bay doors open. Three, two, one... Launch!" Slapping a large red key, the co-pilot braced himself.

The Pelican lurched as it spat forth a gunmetal green cube. "Flaps off, full military thrust." Pulling back the slider, the pilot shoved the throttle forward and the Pelican lept forward, climbing high into the sky.

"Radar contact! Zero three zero zero, mark one five- oh Christ..." The co-pilot turned to look at the pilot. "It's a piece of the Prowler."

Jerking the yoke to the side, the Pilot shoved the slider forward. "Flaps to forty percent! Give me a distance reading on th-"

-

Inside the drop capsule, there was a small lurch as a wave of pressure hit the topside of the gunmetal green cube throwing it slightly off course. A green gauntleted hand reached up, and tapped a few times on an overhead mounted keypad.

Thrusters fired, the cube stabilized, and continued along a new trajectory. The rain of blackened titanium fell past the capsule as is had altered course to avoid being shattered by the fragments.

The occupants endured the fall silently, awaiting their chance to properly begin their mission, heedless of the risks it entailed.

-

High up, in the black of space, far above the Ghost Five outpost, a purple oblong shape drifted past the ruined wreckage of a UNSC Prowler.

-

Apologies for the long delay at uploading this chapter. I've had it sitting on my desktop for a long time, but only just finished it this afternoon.

Hopefully it's up to your standards. Questions and comments, as always, are welcome.


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